


never burnt but lit

by elegantstupidity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Unverse - Organized Crime, Gen, Quest for vengeance, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the House of Black and White, a girl sets out to take back her name.</p>
<p>Modern AU, involving some things of questionable legality and definite immorality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns to a familiar past with hopes of crafting her longed-for future.

She's seventeen and more terrifying than any teenager has a right to be. Of course, she had spent the better part of a decade forgoing a childhood; she hardly feels like a teenager at all. She's seventeen; dangerous and clinical and ready to take back what is hers. There is no need for the relative shelter of the House of Black and White anymore, and so she leaves. She's seventeen when she's found again, when she becomes Arya again. Really, she's seventeen when she  _lets_  herself be found, but it's been a long time since she learned it's often best to let people make their own truth.

It wasn't a hard operation to orchestrate, not with her skill set and not with what she knew of her targets. And she knew a lot. She'd been with the Brotherhood before she'd fallen in with the House as a girl. She hadn't been a part of them, hadn't been allowed, but she knew enough. True, this mission was of her own design and these targets were not marked by the House, but a mission is a mission and she rarely fails. She did find time to be vaguely glad for the lack of expected dry cleaning bills.

All it takes is a job as a bar-back at a pub well within the Brotherhood's old stomping grounds, and a few carefully slipped secrets. In a few weeks, she is face-to-face with her past. In all her planning, she'd never though her past would look so good.

 _He's grown up,_  is the first, most obvious, thought that coalesces in her brain. He'd always towered over her, but a five-year age gap does that to people. Shoulders that were already broad at sixteen seem impossibly wide now, making for a near giant of a man. His blue eyes and black hair are the same, though, or similar enough to satisfy. She reaffirms an eleven year old's assessment of his appearance - unfairly attractive. He'd stepped into the bar already searching, not for a way to forget, as so many did, but looking almost hopefully for her. Arya wonders how long he'd stayed away, convinced the whispers and rumors were only that.

He manages to find her where she's stocking cheap bottles of Tyroshi beer behind the bar immediately, and she is a little surprised. He's grown up, but sixteen to twenty-two is different from eleven to seventeen. Arya no longer looks like a horsefaced little girl, and she hadn't hoped to be recognized so easily. She can't read the look in his eyes, and thinks that bothers her more than it should. As it is, she does her best to seem shocked at the sight of him. He's at the bar in the matter of moments, directly across from her and staring intently. She wants to fidget under his gaze, and almost gives in when he decides to speak.

"So, you're not dead," Gendry states flatly.

Arya frowns. She hadn't really worked up any expectations of her first re-encounter with her last friend, but she certainly hadn't thought to anticipate that. "No," she agrees, just as blunt. "I'm not."

Finally, she can read some of the feeling on his face.  _He's angry_ , she thinks, a bit confused.  _He's furious with me. He has no right. He left me._

He leans on the bar, trying to get into her space. She refuses to back away.

"You didn't think that would be good information for anyone to have?" he bites out, failing to keep his tone even.

She baits him. "Plenty of people had that information."

"Not me." She hardly even needs to look to know that his knuckles are white, strong fingers wrapped around the edge of the bar.

She blinks at him, letting confusion spill across her face, even if for just a moment. She darts a look sidelong at the bartender, who is not even trying to pretend like he's not massively interested in the confrontation happening before his eyes. Suddenly, Arya doesn't want to have this conversation in front of anyone else, even if that anyone else is entirely inconsequential to her plans. "I'm taking my break," she mutters to him, before ducking out from behind the bar. She doesn't stay to listen to any protest; fairly certain there won't be one anyway. It had only taken a few days and an overly ambitious pair of hands to prove that this bar-back was not one to be messed with.

She walks through the storeroom, out the fire exit, and into the surprisingly clean alleyway, all the while knowing that Gendry was right on her heels. Neither says anything, so Arya fishes out a cigarette from her back pocket and lights it to fill the gap, leaning against sun-warm brick.

Gendry's frowning at her. "You're not old enough for that."

"I'm not old enough for a lot of things, and that hasn't stopped me," she returns with a shrug. She knows he couldn't possibly understand the extent of her meaning.

"Gods, Arry." It's the first time he says her name. Or close enough. She was never really Arya to him, anyway. "What happened to you? Where did you go?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened to me. I wasn't anywhere, really. Nowhere special." It almost felt like the truth when she says it. No One had kept Arya locked up tight, away from the influence of the House, or she at least tried. In a way, it seemed like a lot of the past six years had belonged to No One, sometimes Beth or Cat, but hardly ever Arya. "I mean, what do you care?" She let her confusion show again.

He's staring at her, incredulous. "Of course I fucking care, Arry." He's said her name once and now it seems he can't stop. "You were eleven and you just disappeared off the face of the planet. We couldn't find a single trace of you after the Hound took you. We thought you were dead, or worse."

"Oh, I get it. If you never saw me again because you and the Brotherhood ransomed me back to my brother, that's fine, but Gods forbid you never see me again because I'm dead." She lets her anger and her bitterness coat her accusation. She didn't forgive him then, and the intervening six years have not sweetened her outlook. Taking a drag from her cigarette, she meets Gendry's gaze defiantly.

He seems smaller, somehow, as though all of her barbs have punctured his skin and he's deflating. "Arry, I couldn't have gone with you. Not like you thought. We could be friends on the run because we needed to be. To survive. If you got back, and were safe with your family, there wouldn't have been room for me."

Arya ignores the potential veracity of his statement and volleys another attack, "Well, that doesn't matter now, does it? I didn't get to be safe with them, but you still got your Brotherhood. You could have been with me for the past six years, but you weren't." She vaguely hates that she's being so childish, clinging to this sense of betrayal. Maybe keeping Arya locked up and being No One stunted her emotional development. She inhales more nicotine, trying not to think about the boatload of psychological trauma she's been put through.

"What do you want me to say? That I shouldn't have stayed here? That I should've stayed with you, should've protected you? I should have! I should have been with you every minute of these last six years, and I can't forgive that I wasn't."

Much as she can't forgive him, either, she also can't bring herself to agree with him. If he had been at her side for the last six years, there's no way she would have taken what the House of Black and White had to offer. As much as she had needed him, she needed her path to vengeance more.  _That is what this mission is about,_  she reminds herself. The House had taught her everything, but she couldn't get by without her own, private force of Lannister-hating supporters. The Brotherhood was just that: a group of men who already knew her story, a group already loyal to her cause. With them at her back, she could rain retribution down on the Lannisters and Boltons and Freys, on any man or woman that had raised a hand to her family. She would avenge her father and mother, Robb and Bran and Rickon. And then, she could find Jon Snow, and Sansa, too, if her sister were ready to be found. 

What this meant, Arya realizes all at once, is that she could not look at Gendry and see the boy she once knew. She has to see only another cog in the machine that drives her relentlessly toward the destruction of her enemies. Arya is full of shame, but No One might be able to do it. She dreads becoming No One again, especially now that she's become Arya again, now that she's with someone who knows Arya. No One will be the means, and Arya the ends. She thinks she can live with that. 

She doesn't grant Gendry the absolution that he probably needs, but tries not to be more cruel. Taking a last drag of her cigarette, she drops the remains on the ground, crushing the ash and paper beneath her heel. She meets his eye, "I managed all right without you." Even as she says it, she can see in the way his face closes up that she has not blunted the edge of her words. Before he can apologize again, she continues, "But I think I might need some help now."

He sees it as a peace offering, she knows, and disabusing him of the notion would throw a wrench in her plans, so she doesn't. She lets parts of her goal spill into the four feet of air between them, clogging the alley with plots and plans. He stares at her, and he's inscrutable, finally having learned to keep his face clear when thinking. 

When her words have settled around them like summer snow, he's still quiet. She fights the urge for another cigarette, wanting to feel the burn of tar in her lungs as it lights her up from the inside. Finally, he makes a decision and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "All right, I'll take you to the Brotherhood. I think there's someone you need to meet," he frowns as he thinks of it, though she cannot fathom why he would worry about her meeting someone.

She decides not to think on it, relieved that he's going along with her. Arya offers Gendry a tentative smile. He looks relieved in return, and closes the gap between them to pull her into a hug.

It's been a long time since Arya has been hugged, and she tries to focus on not tensing up in his arms. She can feel his heart beat, not quite erratically, from where her ear is pressed to his ribcage. She lets her fingers curl into the thin, body-warmed fabric of his shirt. When Gendry releases her, he's smiling so authentically, so genuinely happy to have her back. Arya can only hope he's still happy when he finds out what she has planned for the Lannisters.

"I've gotta work until ten. Can you come back then?" she asks. She could probably leave the bar without a glance back, but she needs the money and needs the time more. How this stupid boy from years ago has managed to knock her off balance, she has no idea, but she needs time to refocus on her prerogatives.

He nods and if he were going to say anything else, decides to keep it to himself. He stares at her a moment longer, drinking in her presence, before he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley. In a second he's out of sight.

As she walks back into the bar, she pushes Gendry from her mind. All that matters is that soon, soon she will be Arya Stark once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song "Churlish May" by Johnny Flynn
> 
> Probably a one shot. I kind of like this 'verse, but I've got nothing planned for the future. Of course, that is subject to change given the right kind of motivation and inspiration.


	2. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya learns pertinent information and Gendry struggles to figure her out.

He'd been sixteen when Arya Stark disappeared and he's twenty-two when she returns. Six years in between, and she'd haunted his every moment; this sad, angry, bitter little girl who had only wanted somewhere to belong. Even after spending only a few minutes with the returned Arya, he's certain that the ghost that's been hovering around his heart is less a reflection of reality than of his guilt. It's not that she's not sad or angry or bitter, it's that she's not still a little girl.

To be fair, he'd been pretty certain she was dead. Leaving her eternally eleven seemed natural. Not a trace had been found of her on the killing field that was now called the Red Wedding. The Brotherhood had intel that Clegane, the Hound, had been seen there with a child just before the violence broke out. She'd probably been there. Even if she had managed to survive the slaughter, the only other information about Arya Stark was that she had been sent off to Ramsay Snow by the Lannisters. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened to the little girls that fell into his control.

So, Gendry had gone into mourning. He was certain, as only a sixteen-year-old could be, that if he had stayed with her, then Arya Stark would not be dead. Or, at least, he'd be dead with her. His guilt festered and bore out the specter of a girl he once knew, a specter that seemed to possess everyone with dark hair, light eyes and a long face, even if only for a moment. He couldn't count the times he'd thought a passerby was his lost friend. Gendry enshrined a dead girl in his heart and made her into an idol. Now, though, he is unsure of what to do with that; the real girl is alive and refutes the idol's truth.

When he'd first heard rumors of a girl with gray eyes, cold and ferocious, working at one of the Riverlands' many bars, he'd tried to shake off the ghost that rose with the whispers. It had been six years, and it was time to give up on the wild hope that his friend might still be alive. Once he'd determined not to think about it, everyone wanted to tell him about this mystery girl. The orphans, Tom, Anguy, and even Jeyne mentioned it in passing.

He stayed away for nine days. 

On the tenth, he gave in. He hadn't been able to work properly for days, which he hated. He'd been a mechanic since before he could legally drive. Figuring out what was wrong with a car had always been his one outlet for pent up frustration, and he had gotten very good at in the last six years. 

So, he'd come to find himself standing outside of a not-quite-seedy bar in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. He found himself hoping that she wasn't in there. He wanted so desperately for her to be alive, to still exist somewhere on the planet, but he didn't really want her to exist  _here_. She shouldn't be working away with the dregs of human society, not when she must know the Brotherhood was nearby. Why would she have gone anywhere else? 

Of course, wants and hopes are nothing to the Gods. 

He'd found her. Stepping into the bar, and it was like she was polarized, drawing the steel in his gaze.

He'd talked to her, touched her. And he'd left her where he found her. That had been the hardest part, having to leave her again.

Gendry tries to ignore that over-familiar gnawing in his gut. All that matters is that Arya Stark is still alive. She's different, older, sure, but she is still gloriously Arya. She's calculating and distant, but he swears (hopes) he can still see the eleven-year-old he once knew. There's a familiar scruffiness about her, like she hasn't bothered to look in a mirror for days, and an ever-smoldering anger. That outweighs the physical changes, the ones he's still trying to acknowledge in a way that is not weird and creepy. 

But,  _Gods_ , is she beautiful. She's still slim and small despite how much she’s grown; he would have had to lean down to rest his chin on her head when they'd hugged. But, her long, solemn face suits her now, even with as little care as she seems to put into her appearance. Her hair has grown long and was plaited in a tangled braid. It's her eyes though, that haven't changed. Still a bleak, winter gray and shadowed by every wrong ever done to her. They're the eyes of retribution waiting to strike. He knows she hasn't told him everything about her plan. She's left out details or something, probably because she doesn't trust him.  _With good reason_ , he thinks, bitter and ever-guilty. 

Gendry knows about vengeance. It's been his life for the past six years, ever since the Brotherhood found the Lady. He still can't quite figure out how to tell Arya about the Lady. It had slipped out of his mouth before he could think, that she needs to meet someone. Gendry wants to pluck the words from the air, take them from her to leave things less complicated. He hates to say the Lady's alive, because that seems like a cruel joke on the living. He spends all day trying to figure out how to let the topic break gently over them, and is still at a loss when it's time to go get Arya to bring her back to the Brotherhood. 

He doesn't even have to go inside, she's waiting at the door. 

He can't resist: "Ready to go, miss?"

She frowns immediately and he wants to crow with laughter; she hasn't changed that much. She doesn't push him, or punch him, or touch him at all, though. Just keeps frowning and turns to walk towards the Brotherhood headquarters. He's quick to catch up, wondering why she needed him to bring her if she knew where to go. 

She does know where to go, too. She's taking side streets, aiming for the back entrance that's been around forever. She remembers and Gendry's feelings of triumph are short lived. 

"Why didn't you just come to us straight off?" he asks.  _Why didn't you come find me the minute you could?_ he wants to ask, but locks up tight in the pit of his heart.

She just shrugs. "Didn't know if the Brotherhood was still around. If they were, I didn't know if there would be anyone left I knew."

"What, you just thought I'd died?"

"Or moved on," she shrugs again, as though it wouldn't have mattered. Rage starts to bubble up inside of him again. It's always there, the anger. Usually he has a better handle on it. He'd spent six years feeding a monster of guilt and memory, trying to keep Arya Stark alive in the only way he could. He had been so certain she was dead for the longest time, and now she's here, blissfully alive and she hadn't even bothered to care what had happened to him. 

 _Of course. The little lady had other things to do than worry about a bastard boy she once knew_. 

She looks sidelong at him, and he's sure she knows just how angry he is. He pulls in a deep breath, refusing to give in to the clean draw of fury. She focuses ahead again. They're nearing the headquarters, an old bed and breakfast that has been a front for the Brotherhood since its founding, and he still hasn't told her. He has to tell her. He can't let Arya walk into that building, certain her family is gone when that's not precisely true. Gendry hates to say the Lady is alive, but she's not quite dead, either. 

He stops walking, and Arya's barely half a step ahead before she notices. When she turns around, he speaks before she can ask, before he can stop himself.

"You remember Lord Beric and Thoros?"

She looks at him as if he's lost his mind. "Of course I remember them."

"No," he shakes his head, trying to explain properly. "I mean, you remember how Thoros brought Lord Beric back from the dead?"

Her eyes cloud, but she nods anyway. 

"Well, Thoros's power wasn't just for Lord Beric, not really." That's not precisely true. It was Beric's kiss that brought the Lady back from death, but it was Thoros's powers that made it possible

"That's not true!" she exclaims, indignant. "Thoros said it wasn't a power. The Red God granted Lord Dondarrion life, not anyone else."

He stares at her, wondering how she knows that. "All right. Thoros doesn't control it. But the Red God brought back more than just Lord Beric."

"What are you saying? You told me I had to meet someone, is that who? Someone else the Red God has seen fit to resurrect?" she asks, looking agitated. 

He sighs. This is not how he'd wanted this to go. "Arry, how much do you know about the Red Wedding?" He hates asking, hates that she might know of it at all. 

Immediately, her face closes up, impassive and cold. It's terrifying, the way her eyes have eaten up the light. "I know what happened."

"No, Arry. I really need to know what you know about it." Gods, he feels like an asshole, making her relive yet another traumatic experience. 

She stares into his eyes, maybe searching for cruel intentions, a desire to make her suffer. That she even looks is heartwrenching, all her trust in him lost to the six-year hole that yawns between them. 

"They killed him, Gendry." It's the first time she says his name, and suddenly that gap seems to shrink slightly. "They killed poor, stupid, honorable Robb, who couldn't keep it in his pants and then died for it. They cut off his head and replaced it with Grey Wind's." Her voice is even and low, but Gendry can see the way she's vibrating in her rage. She's started now and can't, won't, stop. "Those fucking Freys, the Boltons, they killed every last one of the Stark banners at the Twins. And when they were done, as if that wasn't enough, they slit my mother's throat and dropped her naked in the river."

All he wants is to wrap her in another hug, protect her from the knowledge. But she's got her arms crossed defensively in front of herself and holds herself stiffly away from him. That she doesn't tell him how she knows all this makes him certain she was there when it happened.  _How did she escape, though?_ He couldn't answer that question, not when he had to tell her the rest of the story. 

"That's it, Arry. They killed your mother, but the Brotherhood, we found her body washed up on the bank of the river. Lord Beric wanted Thoros to give her the kiss, to bring her back, but Thoros said she'd been dead too long." He's watching her face for reactions, but she hasn't twitched so much as a muscle. He continues, "Lord Beric gave her the kiss himself. He died for the last time, and she arose."

Arya blinks. The hope, clear and dreadful, that washes over her face is a terrible thing. "Are you saying that my mother is alive?"

"In a way." He hesitates, but tells her the truth, "Whenever Lord Beric came back, he said he was different, less whole. I think that happened to the Lady, too. I didn't know her before, but Harwin swears she's different. All she knows is this unending thirst for vengeance."

If her face had been clear of emotion before, when she described the Wedding, he doesn't know what it is now. Every shadow of emotion and life has disappeared, leaving a blank slate. She might as well not even have a face, for all the good it's doing now. Everything about her is still and frozen. That's what worries him most. The Arya he knew had never been static. She was all motion and bluster and passion. This Arya is stillness and stoicism. He's not sure what to do. 

He reaches out to touch her arm, but she spins away, finally giving into movement. He can't see her face anymore, and isn't sure if it's still etched in unsettling blankness. She's bent at the waist, hands braced on her knees, almost as if she's going to throw up. He has to tell her the rest, before she decides she can't bear to hear anymore. 

"The Brotherhood is hers now. The Lady's. She doesn't even go by Catelyn Stark anymore, Arry. She's Lady Stoneheart. The only things she wants are vengeance for the Red Wedding and finding you and your sister again." She hasn't moved, but she also hasn't vomited, so he continues. "We're taking out the Freys. There're a whole horde of them, but we're making progress."

Something stiffens in Arya's spine when she hears this news. She straightens, stacks her shoulders atop her back bone. He's so quiet, watching her, that he can hear the ragged breath that she draws. When she turns to face him, life of a sort has returned to her features. She is Winter personified and Gendry has a hard time suppressing the shudder that wants to course through him. Her anger has frozen, but is no less potent for it. 

"You were right," she says evenly. "There is someone I need to meet." He can't read her. He'd expected sadness or disbelief. Even the edges of anger that he's already seen. What he didn't expect was her calm acceptance of her mother's fate and subsequent activities. 

He stands, thinking about her lack of response, and Arya has already continued on, abandoning him in the dim light of the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I procrastinated and produced another chapter of this. I actually have no idea what I'm doing, so don't expect a lot? (That's also my motto for school and life in general, so I'm very good at not knowing what's going on at this point, if that's at all comforting.)
> 
> Also, I do not have the handle on Gendry's voice that I wish I did. If anyone could point me towards some good meta on him, I would be eternally grateful.


	3. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya comes to terms and Gendry's there, too.

She stalks through the nighttime streets, trying and failing to control her breath. Any preoccupation she might have had with Gendry's renewed presence in her life had fled the moment he'd said her mother wasn't dead.

Arya knows death. It's not possible to live in the House of Black and White for six years and not become intimately acquainted with it. She hadn't even tried to avoid its grasp, had run to it in the hopes that it would answer her prayers. Death is wild and fierce and all-encompassing, and Arya had nearly let it consume her. She had served the Many-Faced God willingly, all for a chance to wreak her vengeance one day. She had let go of Arya Stark because there was no safety in that name while certain people lived and there was no comfort in that name with certain people dead. She had served because all men must die, and there was nothing else that she could do.

After leaving the Hound for dead, after Mother and Robb were well and truly gone, she'd tried to sail north, to Jon on the Wall. But no one would take her. She was eleven, utterly alone, and at the mercy of the Gods. All she had was an iron coin, and so she used it to buy a future. Any time Arya had surfaced and pushed Cat or Beth or No One aside, she could justify her choices, if only because it had never been a choice at all.

But now? Her mother is alive. Gendry had been cagey on the details, but one thing was made clear: Catelyn Stark had risen from the dead just as Beric Dondarrion had done six times before her.

The small part of Arya that still clings to the life of No One balks at such power. _There is only one God, and his name is Death. He is greedy and jealous and does not relinquish that which is his,_ her mind whispers.

Honestly, Arya knows how she feels. She simply doesn't want to acknowledge it, and so she complicates matters in her head. To have more than Jon and maybe Sansa left to her is gratifying, but she is a summer child no longer. She has no desire to hide behind her mother's skirts and courtesies. Arya left her home, gave it up, because she thought there was no one really left to her. If she had known her mother wasn't dead, not truly, then she never would have left for Essos. She never would have relinquished some part of her humanity to the House. She never would have needed to.

 _You wouldn't change Gendry's leaving, not when it set you on the path towards the House,_  she thinks to herself as she continues to walk briskly, coming ever nearer the Inn. Gendry continues to trail behind her, a shadow at the edge of her consciousness. The part of her that is still all wolf, all North responds, _You would have done anything to cling to whatever family you had left, though. You would change that._ The entirely irrational thought infuriates her and she can't help but blame her mother, blame Gendry, blame the Brotherhood and Yoren and her father and Joffrey and _Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei. Valar Morghulis._ She nearly stops in her tracks. Arya pulls in measured breaths and clears her mind. As much as that list has guided her and driven her, she cannot let it take control of her. She did not spend six years with murderers, learning to emulate them in every way, to lose control now. She knows who is at fault and cannot waste her time and anger mislaying blame because it's not in her to forgive. Forgiveness is between a woman and her gods, and Arya knows there is no true absolution from Death. Death is merciless and universal, coming for the smallfolk even as he captures kings.

Arya had tried to be merciless in her years with the House. She had learned everything they would teach her, but it was the forgetting of things that proved too much for her. She had tried so hard to leave Arya Stark completely behind, but some things were etched too deeply into her mind to shed. Wolves may shed their winter coats with the first blush of spring, but that does not change the beast beneath.

She could never accept that it is not for the Faceless to judge, only to enforce the decided punishment. The House calls it "the gift," treats it as a mercy, but Arya knows better. Death is punishment. Death is finite. There is nothing after Death, only tales to ease the coming of it. If there were a life beyond, the acolytes of the House wouldn't harvest faces from the dead; men and women would not fight and shove and claw their way into survival. 

 _Once Death has made his claim, he does not ever truly give it up. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool and all the more dangerous for it,_  she thinks bitterly. 

Gendry had as good as said that her mother didn't truly come back. Something uses her body, but it's not Catelyn Stark. It's not the mother who despaired of her ever stitching a straight line. It's not the wife who loved her husband even as she loathed his bastard. It's not the widow who went to war. Catelyn Stark ceased to exist the moment some Frey sketched a line of blood across her neck with a blade. All that's left to Arya is memory. 

Within the part of her that has become perfectly rational, Arya knows this. But, there's no way eleven-year-old Arya Stark would have. She would have tied herself to the ghost of a woman long gone. She would have abandoned her list, her desire for retribution, her  _meaning,_ all for an animated corpse. And she wouldn't have looked back, would have joined in the slaughter of Freys even as the real villains prospered. 

 _The Frey family may have a monopoly on transportation here in the Riverlands,_  Arya thinks as Gendry finally draws even with her. She can feel the concern for her swirling through him and others may have found it sweet. Arya knows he thinks her as fragile as a child and doesn't spare him another thought. _The Freys might have money enough, but they don't have the kind of power or influence necessary to kill a king under guest right and take out the entire army of the North. Not on their own._ The Freys committed the murders of her mother and brother, but Arya would lay the blame at the Lannister's door. Walder Frey and the men who laid hands on Robb and her mother would meet their ends at her hands. Further than that, she has no interest in engaging in a turf war between the Frey's banners and the Brotherhood, even if it's in the name of her family. 

They've finally arrived at the Inn. Arya knows what she wants: vengeance. And she knows the truth of her mother: Lady Stark is well and truly gone. What she doesn't know is how to reconcile those two facts. So, she stands and stares blankly at the door and Gendry stares at her. She can't go in, she can't face this very real moment of her past. Not only had she been here with the Brotherhood, but this is where she killed the Tickler and exorcized the first of her demons. Chiswyck and Weese had been vile men and it was her word that sent them into the maw of Death, but they had never been in her prayer. The Tickler was the face of her terror at Harrenhal, a constant reminder of the danger she was in, and to kill him was to kill part of her fear. 

But this is where Needle returned to her. Just as she had killed her fear, her strength returned to her in the form of the small switchblade gifted to her by Jon Snow. Needle is a promise, as much as her prayer is, that she will see her brother and sister again.

Now, though, it's neither fear nor strength she recognizes in herself as she stares at the Inn. It's rage and dread. She can't fathom how each discomforts her even as they've been her constant companions in the past six years. Without looking, she knows Gendry's about to open his mouth and ask why she hasn't gone in, but he's interrupted when the door swings open, flooding them in warm light. 

"And where have you been? Come in, come in! You've been standing out there for ages--I could see you through the window--and you're making the children nervous," the girl silhouetted in the doorway commands, hands on hips. She steps back to let them in, and Arya can see that she's more woman than child, anywhere from a year to a few months younger than Arya herself.

Arya turns to Gendry since there's no way the girl knows her. Arya hasn't forgotten a face since she was a child. 

He's rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Gods, Willow. What are you, my mother?" He ruffles the girl's hair as she continues to chatter at him. There's a pang in the empty part of Arya's heart at the exchange.  _He cannot be your friend, you stupid girl! He cannot be your anything,_ she reminds herself sternly. _He is the means to your ends. All you need is Jon with Sansa as a bonus if she's still alive in the world._ She determines not to listen to any more of their conversation and lets her eyes wander. The front room doubles as a tavern most nights, and there are plenty of people filling the chairs and tables scattered around the room. Even with all the bodies, Arya can see an area rug is laid down in the center of the room, probably covering the stain left by the Tickler's blood seeping from his body. 

There's a rush of pride at that thought followed swiftly by intense guilt. Arya does not enjoy killing; It is simply a tool to regain her family name. The Tickler, though, deserved every ounce of pain and suffering she could inflict upon him. She was not proud to have killed, but to have rid the world of such a monster. 

Gendry's looking at her now, even as he talks with Willow. Arya returns her attention to them to hear, "Where's your sister? I need to talk shop with her."

Willow rolls her eyes. "It's not as if I don't know what you mean when you say that, Gendry. We _all_ know the business of the inn. Leaving us in the dark is not actually protecting us, especially when Tom and Lem like to ramble when they're hammered."

"One, you don't know what being hammered is. Two, having all the kids know nothing is protecting them, even if you disagree."

Willow's eye roll contains more derision than her first by an order of magnitude. Arya is duly impressed. "I know what drunks look like. I've been serving in the main room since I could carry a tray without spilling," Willow argues. "And, fine. Maybe we don't want ten year olds knowing what the Inn really does, but I'm not a child! I'm sixteen, which makes me an adult in the civilized world."

Gendry snorts, stubborn as ever. "Maybe legally. Just because Westeros still has some ancient law on the books that says turning sixteen makes you an adult, doesn't mean it's true."

Arya can see that the girl is nearly on the verge of stomping her foot in a fit of childish pique and things become clear. This girl, so close to herself in age and original temperament, reminds Gendry of the friend he once gave up. He looks at her with the same laughter in his eyes, even as he tries to pick a fight. He's more at ease with her, too; speaks unguardedly because there is no class barrier to mind. That hollow in her heart throbs again, but she pushes it aside. 

She comes to Willow's defense. "Age is no guarantee of maturity. We all know terrible things happen to children in this country. Better to prepare them than protect them." She levels a significant look at Gendry, who doesn't have the grace to look away. 

Willow turns to Gendry triumphantly. "See! She--" the girl stops, turning to Arya. "I'm sorry. I didn't notice before. We've never met." She extends her hand.

Arya glances at Gendry, wondering how much she should tell. She clasps hands and opts for a simple, "I'm Arya."

That's more than enough. Willow's eyes go wide and she turns back Gendry, hand still clutching Arya's. His face is serious, and Arya desperately wants to know what he's told Willow of her. He shakes his head minutely and Willow slumps, reluctantly releasing Arya's hand. Eyes trained by the Faceless catch everything, and the flame of her interest is fanned ever higher. 

"That's why I need to see Jeyne, Willow. We need to call a meeting of the Brotherhood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is all over the place, but I can't stare at it any more. Pretty massively introspective.
> 
> Anyway I hope everyone had happy holidays/Christmas Specials and has a wonderful/safe New Year!


	4. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's an enigma that Gendry struggles to comprehend.

It doesn’t take long to get Willow to find Jeyne and it takes less time to convince Jeyne to call in the Brotherhood. Gendry could just as easily do it himself, but truthfully, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to explain why everyone, well, everyone important, needs to come back to the Inn at 10:30 on a Tuesday night.

Ordinarily, they only meet every other week or so to discuss logistics. Though their not-quite-open warfare against the Frey family constitutes a significant portion of Brotherhood business these days, they have yet to forget their original purpose. The smallfolk of the Riverlands need protecting, and the nobles aren’t doing it. They meet up to discuss supply lines and necessary services for the area, the orphanage at the Inn being only part of a vast network of Brotherhood-run ventures in the Riverlands. Even though winter's grip seems to be weakening, the smallfolk have been through too much in the past five years to trust anything that seems like a turn of good fortune. The last meeting took place barely five days earlier, and most of the men would take their sweet time in coming back without proper incentive.

That’s what he should have been doing as he agonized over how to break the news of Lady Stoneheart to Arya. Instead of failing to come up with a sensitive way to tell a girl her beloved lady mother is little better than a wight, he should have been ensuring she would have support and familiar faces to surround her when she finally came face to face with the truth. Of course, even with an entire afternoon and evening of thinking, he’d managed to cock up his initial plan, and now leaves assembling the emotional back-up in the more capable hands of Jeyne.

He probably should have let Jeyne include Arya's return in her messages to the Brotherhood. Most of the senior members had known her and would return the sooner for it. Gendry notices Jeyne look askance at him when he insists she withhold that piece of information. He’d been at the Inn permanently for nearly the entire time Arya was gone and Jeyne had heard more than her fair share of his stories about a certain wolf girl. Jeyne knows better than anyone what Arya means to both the Brotherhood and him. Gendry’s just not sure he does.

Nonetheless, Jeyne does as he requests, and Gendry is sure she will be more effective than he would be in getting everyone back to headquarters.

Maybe the sheer mystery of everything will prod everyone back. An urgent call to reassemble only days after their last meeting could prove intriguing enough to prompt attendance. They might be members of a criminal organization, but life in the last few years has devolved into a steady grind of daily business. There are few surprises left in the Riverlands. Gendry vainly hopes the sudden reappearance of Arya Stark is one of the last.

Business settled for now, Gendry turns away from Jeyne and her knowing eyes. He glances around the front room, looking, almost before he realizes, for Arya.

She’s sitting alone at a table near the far side of the room. Rather than watching the patrons, though, she gazes blankly at the worn rug in the middle of the floor, almost as if she’s trying to discern its pattern. Gendry’s fairly sure there isn’t one, but is glad for the rug anyway; without it, Arya would be staring at a sizable bloodstain. Every so often, Jeyne and Willow go into these piques of cleanliness and scour the Inn from top to bottom. In all their efforts, they’ve never managed to completely lift the stain. In the end, the sisters give up and replace the rug, but not before giving it a thorough dusting.

Gendry’s about to make his way over to Arya when someone else beats him to the punch. As soon as the man approaches, Arya’s attention snaps up, and a mask of what Gendry assumes must be polite indifference settles on her face. The man is even older than Gendry and looks to be nearly ten years her senior. That’s not enough for Arya to dismiss him, though. After a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, he sits down and begins talking.

Gendry hates that he can’t hear the conversation. He is clear across the room and the chatter from other customers is too loud. Even as he watches, Arya’s face remains neutral, but Gendry flatters himself to think he can read the sheen of amusement in her eyes.

 _Why is that flattering, you idiot?_ he asks himself. _You might still know her, but it’s another man looking to_ know her _tonight if you don’t put a stop to it._ He doesn’t question that he must put a stop to it, but he rationalizes anyway. _She’s just found out her mother is a part of the murderous undead and works with the organization that would have profited by selling her back to that now undead mother._

Mind made up even before he began thinking, Gendry makes his way over to Arya’s table, all too aware of Jeyne’s eyes at his back. As he walks, he absorbs more about the man trying to engage one of the last Starks in conversation.

The man can’t be that bright, or else he would notice Arya’s vague, one word answers. Unfortunately, even Gendry grudgingly has to admit the man is more than handsome enough to make up for it. Not particularly broad or tall, there’s a certain fineness to his face that Gendry immediately associates with Westerosi nobility. _Obviously not that noble_ , Gendry thinks derisively _, if he’s at the Inn on a Tuesday chatting up a seventeen year old_. Then again, the only experience Gendry has of nobles is as an apprentice in Tobho Mott’s shop and with Arya on the run. Neither could really explain his deep-seated disdain for the upper class.

He makes it to the table in time to hear, “What do you say to that?”

Gendry doesn’t even need to know what “that” is to know that it’s not happening on his watch. He’s right behind the man and is sure Arya has seen him, even if her eyes don’t address him. She doesn’t look flustered or incensed or even intrigued to have a strange man proposition her in a strange bar. That same, flat expression has occupied her face for the entire exchange and now Gendry thinks he must have imagined the earlier shine of laughter.

Because she makes no move to dismiss the suit before her, and only for that reason, he tells himself, Gendry lays a strong hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Not tonight, mate,” Gendry intones, voice completely, inexplicably lower than usual. The man whirls off his chair in a huff, ready to prove himself, but takes in Gendry’s superior height and breadth and deflates. After he takes one last look at Arya, who has only exerted the effort to raise a lazy eyebrow, he slinks off without further prompting.

Gendry sits in the abandoned chair, but doesn’t look at Arya, worried about what she’s going to yell at him. A few moments of quiet pass before he finally turns to the girl across the table. Her eyebrow has yet to descend, but otherwise her face is impassive. That makes him worry more.

The Arya he knew, the scrappy, rude, little girl, would at least be fuming at him right now. More likely, she would have launched herself across the table and begun beating him the moment he walked up. Then again, the Arya he knew wouldn’t have been attracting the attention of grown men in the first place. The ghost of that girl won’t be fading any time soon.

Gendry looks away from Arya and crosses his arms. He doesn’t need to justify himself, but he does. He nods over to where the man has found company with a pretty blonde across the room. “He comes in most nights. Pulls most nights, too. Jeyne says he’s got a wife and four kids he goes back to every morning.” Jeyne says no such thing, but Gendry wouldn’t put it past him. Gendry has no idea whether or not the man’s at the Inn most nights, but it doesn't seem impossible, so he can't fault himself for telling Arya so.

Arya doesn’t say anything, but when Gendry chances a look at her, her eyebrow has returned to its original place. To be honest, he doesn’t know what to do with this calculating, quiet reflection of the girl he once knew. She doesn’t give him much to work with.

She yawns, and Gendry suddenly wonders how many hours she worked today. She’ll have to be awake when the Brotherhood stumbles in in the middle of the night and it seems wrong to make her stay up until then.

He stands up and jerks his head towards the staircase in the corner, saying, “Come on.”

Arya’s eyes narrow. “Why?” she asks, entirely too suspicious, and it feels like something is eating away at Gendry's gut.

“The brothers won’t be here for hours. There’s no reason you can’t get some sleep before that.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Arya crosses her arms, and Gendry can finally see how that eleven-year-old girl has grown up. He sighs anyway.

“Look, Arry. You’ve had a long day—”

“Have I?” There’s no mistaking the argument in her voice, especially when he sees that her eyebrow has risen again and her jaw has set.

He rolls his eyes, trying to deflate her indignation the way he does Willow’s. “Don’t be a brat. You’re tired and you know it.”

Her lips purse at his accusation, but she rises with solemn dignity and follows him up the stairs.

He’s not sure how many times she’s going to unconsciously remind him that she is not the lost girl he once knew. Arry would have shoved him, shouted at him, done something more to make her displeasure known. Gendry doesn’t know what to do with this contained, intense woman, not when he’d spent years waiting for someone completely different to return.

Unfortunately, Gendry had not really thought about what he was saying before he said it. By some miracle, there were no available rooms at the Inn. Arya still needs to sleep, though, so he takes her to the one place he can.

As Gendry holds open the door to his own room, he notices Arya pause before she enters. He misses the way her eyes flick from the contents of the room to his own tense form, but he knows she understands what he’s doing. When she goes in, Gendry releases the breath he told himself he wasn’t holding on purpose.

The room is a mess, but no more so than usual. Having never had a space of his own before joining the Brotherhood—the back room of Tobho Mott’s garage not really counting as a bedroom for all that he slept there—Gendry had taken advantage of his privacy. There was a pile of clothes tidied away into a corner next to a slightly lopsided chest of drawers. His bed had been made, either by Willow or one of the scores of orphans who still lived at the Inn. The biggest mess was strewn across his desk.

Appropriated computer parts, spare CPUs, various screwdrivers, and wires of all lengths littered the desktop and spilled unceremoniously to the floor.

Arya zeros in on this mess, and she turns to Gendry. “What’s all this, then?”

The nonchalance in her voice nearly sets him off. It's as though she hasn't expected him to change, improve, at all in six years. Part of Gendry recognizes the hypocrisy in that thinking, but he can't bring himself to care. “I’m working on something,” he bites out.

That infernal eyebrow rises again before Arya turns away. All she says is, “I didn’t know you could fix computers.”

“It’s not as though I’ve just been sitting around replacing carburetor after carburetor,” he responds drily.

To be fair, he had done that. For years. It wasn’t until Thoros dropped a heavy book on computer programming in his lap without explanation when he was eighteen that Gendry even thought of learning anything else. What did it matter anyway? He’d still be the bastard child of a bar maid and the Gods knew who, just a bastard with another skill.

 _And cue the bitter orphan routine_ , he thinks ruefully. Arya’s turned around again and assesses him with her cool, gray eyes. Just as he’s sure he’ll be found wanting, a corner of her mouth quirks up, and the air rushes from his chest.

Gendry scrambles to cover his inappropriate reaction to Arya’s not-smile. “You can sleep here until the Brotherhood gets here. It’ll be a good couple of hours, and I’ll make sure someone wakes you up when it’s time.”

“Where are you going?” There’s nothing even remotely mischievous in her question, but Gendry feels flustered anyway.

“Oh, I’ve got, uh, some work to do in the garage.” Arya nods, and Gendry barrels onward, “I should probably help Jeyne and Willow out, too. They’ve been here all day with a bunch of kids and drunks, and they could use the help.” All Gendry wants is to leave this room and this situation so he can purge it from his memory. 

Arya, at least, doesn’t look too amused with his rambling. She also doesn’t look like she’s paying that much attention, so Gendry escapes while he can. With a quick, “See you later,” he’s out the door and down the hall.

 _Gods, what are you? A fifteen year old?_ Gendry’s pretty sure he hasn’t been that awkward around a woman since he was first propositioned at the Peach. _Of course Arya Stark brings it out of you, you idiot._  

As different as she is now, there’s something fundamentally the same about Arya, and it sometimes feels like nothing has changed. Gendry can feel that the thoughts and emotions that he’d just begun to understand at sixteen are returning in full force. 

He’s intensely glad he hadn’t lied about having things to do. Even if he wanted to, there’s no way he would be able to get any rest, not with Arya Stark asleep in his bed.

 _Oh, Gods_ , he thinks.  _I'm so screwed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey anyone actually reading this! I'm super sorry for the delay, but winter break, ya know? Basically, I was just majorly unmotivated. 
> 
> This also hasn't been as edited as some of the previous chapters, so there might be some changes over the next few days. Also, I'm realizing that I'm really terrible at pacing, so if anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. As always, feedback is adored.


	5. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya dreams and lays a claim.

As the door closes and Arya is alone again, she struggles to remain composed, breathing deeply and evenly until her heart beats steadily against her ribs. She’d asked Gendry where he was going nearly out of sheer panic. Even after years of technically being on her own, she does not care for solitude. But it feels like forever since she had a friend.

Before she left Winterfell, everyone had been her friend—except Sansa and Jeyne Poole, but that was because they never learned or wanted to understand each other. Arya was nothing if not precocious, befriending squires and stable hands and scullery maids alike. Even in King’s Landing, there had been her father’s men and Syrio. More importantly, there had been miles of Keep to explore and dragon bones to uncover. On the run, she had had Lommy and Hot Pie for a time. Even Ned Dayne had been her friend. And of course there was Gendry.

But once she left the Brotherhood, she’d had only herself. She hated the Hound, despite his promise to return her to her family; Mycah’s murder was too large a gap to bridge. Then, making her way to Braavos, she’d talked to everyone she could, but the sailors only wanted her to remember their names, and the people in the Happy Port were targets, not potential friends. She knew their names and families and secrets, and they only saw Cat of the Canals.

And yes, she’d been with the House, but training to be an assassin and member of a semi-secret society didn’t really lend itself to forming new friendships. She’d had her apprenticeship masters, but those men and women had certainly not been her friends. They were trainers and teachers, cold-blooded killers in their own right. They taught No One to be wary of relationships because anyone can be killed.

It’s a hard feeling to shake off, especially since Arya isn’t completely sure that No One sleeps peacefully. Sometimes, it feels as though her training threatens to drown the pieces of Arya she’s recovered, longing for Facelessness over the ruin that is Arya Stark’s life. Even this afternoon she’d told herself that she could handle being No One for a little longer if only it would let Arya Stark rise from the dead.

But that’s the problem. Good things don’t rise from the dead and Arya dreads to see what has become of her lady mother. The hour or so that has passed since Gendry first told her has not been enough time to reconcile herself fully.

Maybe I should sleep, she thinks. At least I wouldn’t be thinking about this.

In six years, sleep has become the refuge of Arya Stark. It’s the one time she can come awake without fear of repercussions—smacks from the Kindly Man, withheld meals, extra training. Sleep is where Arya can become the Night Wolf.

It seems silly, at seventeen, to take such comfort in a dream. But she’s had these dreams since she was young and on the run, and they are now a part of her. They’ve come more often since she returned to Westeros, and Arya feels like that must be some kind of sign.

Arya looks around Gendry’s room even as she tries not to think of why she’s here specifically. It feels like an invasion to go through his dresser drawers, but it feels stranger to shed her tight jeans and sweat-stiff shirt so she can sleep comfortably in his bed. She’s not a prude, but that feels entirely too personal.

In this moment, she misses the shitty motel room where she’s stayed since her return. She’d initially thought about trying to find someone who wanted a roommate, but much as Arya dislikes loneliness, she values her privacy more. She should have made Gendry take her to the motel, if only for a change of clothes. But how could she have known that Gendry would make her stay at the Inn until all hours of the morning? How could she have known she’d end up sleeping in his room?

Before she has to reach a decision, there is a convenient knock at the door. Arya answers, and standing in the hall is Willow, holding a pile of clothes.

“Jeyne thought you might like something to sleep in,” the girl offers the stack with a smile.

Arya accepts the clothes with a restrained smile of her own and a quiet, “Thank you.” Just as she’s about to turn away and close the door, though, Willow asks a question.

“Is it true?” Willow’s eyes are bright and curious, as though Arya should know exactly what her question means. The girl must read the confusion on Arya’s face because she continues, “Is it you the Brotherhood’s got business with? Gendry didn’t say anything, but the Brotherhood doesn’t just come back in force for him, not unless he’s shut himself up here for days on end.”

She tries not to think what Gendry could get up to by himself for days at a time that would have the Brotherhood swarming the Inn. Instead, Arya chooses to be surprised by the wisdom that seems so incongruous with Willow’s somewhat bubbly nature. Maybe this is what teenagers are meant to be like, Arya thinks, aiming for detachment. It can’t be quests for justice for everyone.

More importantly, though, Arya’s not sure how to respond. Gendry and possibly even the girl’s sister have not included her in the official business of the Brotherhood. Arya doesn’t think either would appreciate it if she told Willow much of anything. At the same time, Arya knows how it feels to be aware that everyone is hiding secrets and not knowing a single one. That feeling leads to resentment and the cultivation of things to keep secret from others. Then again, Arya Stark had never been a particularly trusting girl, and six years of training had only fed that instinct. Perhaps it’s different for normal people.

She shakes off the traitorous thought and regards Willow. She looks genuinely curious, but also nearly resigned to the idea that her question won’t be answered. Arya can easily guess that it’s not often the younger girl gets a straight answer at the Inn. It’s impossible not to see a reflection of herself in Willow, albeit a slightly more sheltered reflection.

“I guess I’m the one with business for the Brotherhood,” is what Arya settles on. It’s an honest answer, just more vague than she knows Willow would like. Before Willow can continue her questioning, Arya yawns, more a hint than a reflex. The younger girl is frowning when she turns away from the door, but leaves Arya in relative peace.

She yawns again, and suddenly there is nothing she wants more than to fall into bed. Arya quickly changes into the clothes that Willow brought, a too-large t-shirt and pair of shorts faded from frequent washing. Methodically folding her own clothes, Arya fishes Needle from the back pocket of her jeans and then climbs into bed.

Having Needle with her every day is still a novel experience. The Kindly Man had tried to rid her of the switchblade, the only possession tying her to her old life, alongside her reflexive lip biting and memories of Winterfell. Clearly, he hadn’t succeeded. Needle’s weight is a comfort at the bar—and came in handy the once—and she always keeps it nearby, though she’s learned not to sleep with it in her hand.

Cocooned in Gendry’s blankets, comfortable clothes, and with Needle a hairsbreadth from her fingertips, Arya’s eyes drift closed.

They open and her sight has gone dim, though not like when she was Beth, simply hazy. The flood of smells that enter her nostrils more than makes up for the lack of color. She’s used to this. This is how the Night Wolf sees.

She throws her head back and cries out to the moon, and other voices join her.

Brothers! Sister! her mind calls out, but she knows that is wrong. The voices that carry the harmony are her pack, yes, but they are not like her. They are not cut from the same cloth, born to the same litter. If they were, there is no way so many of them would have fallen to the traps of men. Direwolves are not like their southern cousins.

Even as she thinks this, her mind strays to her father and Robb and Bran and Rickon, all of whom fell into the traps set for them. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. But that’s stupid. Father had his guards and her and Sansa, much good as they did. Arya ran when Syrio told her to and Sansa believed in Joffrey’s mercy. Robb had his banners and mother, and even Bran and Rickon had each other. So far, only the lone wolves had survived war.

The Night Wolf, and Arya by extension, shakes her great head and ceases her howl. She begins to run.

Miles fall and die beneath her paws and the Riverlands spread around her. It’s always the Riverlands that Arya sees as the Night Wolf. That’s part of the reason she came back; all for a childish dream. She’s not sure how she knows it’s the Riverlands, but instinct tells her to trust what she believes.

Usually, she sees only forests and streams, unoccupied lands, in these dreams. The past few nights, however, there have been more signs of human life: well-traveled roads, the occasional farmhouse. The pack is on the move, but Arya can’t understand why.

Arya is pulled from her puzzle and into wakefulness. She’s curled in warm blankets that smell of sweat, motor oil, and an underlying cleanliness. They smell like Gendry. Curling into a smaller ball and inhaling deeply, Arya hears the knocking that originally woke her.

She gets up to answer the door, and feels more tired than when she first went to sleep, which always seems to happen after she leaves the Night Wolf in the forests of the Riverlands. This time, an older Willow is waiting at the door. This must be Jeyne, her face thinner and circles darker under her eyes.

Jeyne observes Arya as frankly as she’s being observed, and Arya finds she wants to know how she holds up. It’s a foreign thought. No one but the House’s trainers has been important enough for her to worry about their initial impression of her.

Jeyne finishes her inspection, but doesn’t indicate what she thinks with any expression. Arya is duly impressed; not many people can conceal their feelings from the Faceless, even the almost-Faceless.

“The Brotherhood is here,” is all Jeyne says before searching her face one last time and walking away.

Willow obviously got all the curiosity in this family, thinks Arya, ignoring the pang in her chest over a set of opposites embodied in sisters. She exchanges shorts for jeans, but can’t bring herself to put on her own sweat and beer stained shirt again. The shirt she wore to sleep is good enough, even if the collar is stretched out and the short sleeves fall nearly to her elbows. Arya rearranges the pillows and blankets, replaces Needle and she leaves Gendry’s room as though she was never even there.

Downstairs, there’s a riot of activity, and it’s easy enough for Arya to slip around unnoticed.

The Brotherhood, as always, is overwhelmingly made up of men. There are a few women scattered around the main room, some faces are hard from work and war, others turned haggard from winter and weariness. The men have fared no better.

Gendry is standing by the hearth, craning his neck, probably looking for her. Arya shrinks back into the shadows, wedges herself between two burly men to avoid his gaze. She wants to see how the Brotherhood operates before she steps forward. She wants to see Gendry lead.

The riot has settled into a flurry, and Arya knows if Gendry doesn’t take control now, he’ll never have it.

He seems to pluck her thoughts from the air, because he shouts for their attention. The silence isn’t immediate, but falls ungrudgingly.

Gendry draws a breath and begins to speak. “The Brotherhood Without Banners has been on the same path for years without the promise of an end. We serve the people of the Riverlands, but we also serve Lady Stoneheart in her search for vengeance. Her vengeance is unending. It will take the destruction of the Freys and Boltons and Lannisters to satisfy her.”

A voice rises in the crowd. “You saying those bastards don’t deserve everything they’ve got coming to them?” Arya’s not sure who said it, but the voice is as familiar as hers once was, filled with the clipped burr of the North.

Frustrated, Gendry shakes his head. “I’m not saying that! I’m saying it’s not possible for the Brotherhood to accomplish that kind of total annihilation. It shouldn’t be possible, not when we have the smallfolk to think of.”

“You’re going soft on us, Waters.”

“You never liked getting your hands dirty, anyway.”

“There’s a reason we keep you here with the kiddies.”

The accusations are spreading through the room, the ungrudging acknowledgement of Gendry’s leadership turned to animosity in moments. It’s fine, though. Arya’s seen what she needed. She slips through the agitated crowd, more mist than girl on two feet, and appears next to Gendry at the hearth.

He glares down at her, his own accusation clear. She gazes solemnly back at him before turning to face the room. Some are just beginning to notice her presence next to Gendry, and as awareness spreads, the jeers die down. They’re too curious about a teenage girl in an oversized shirt and too tired to keep up their squabbling. Arya finds familiar faces in the crowd—Harwin, looking puzzled, Thoros, Lem, even Edric Dayne— and tries to remember what it was like to be Lady Arya Stark among them.

“The Brotherhood Without Banners used to stand for the smallfolk of the Riverlands. Now all you can be said to stand for is the constant murder of Freys.” Her voice is clear, strong, the voice of a lady.

“Who are you?” demands a belligerent, disembodied voice. “What would you know about what the Brotherhood stands for? I’ve never seen you in my life.” Arya turns to the speaker, a solid man with dark, stringy hair. True, he’s never seen her, but his insolence is off-putting.

She stares into his eyes and knows her face has taken on the unsettling blankness she learned in Braavos. It is remarkably useful for unnerving the weak-willed. The room is silent now, everyone watching this slip of a girl cow a grown man without any words. Satisfied, Arya lets her gaze sweep across the crowd, finally flicking up to Gendry, who hadn’t moved from her side. He gives a shallow nod and she swallows.

“I’m one who has plenty of reason to want the Freys dead and buried. Guest right is the oldest of customs in the Seven Kingdoms, and to violate it is to bring the wrath of the gods, old and new. The architects of the Red Wedding deserve nothing but death. But this vengeance of your Lady’s, it is not fair and it is not just. Indiscriminate killing pleases no one, least of all the man who commits the act.

“I, too, require vengeance—on the Freys, the Boltons, the Greyjoys, and the Lannisters—but my vengeance will be justice!”

Arya hadn’t expected to become so impassioned, but she rationalizes that she needs the Brotherhood’s support and the emotional expenditure will get her that. Gone is the flat blankness learned from the House. The flush of a girl playing at swords has returned to her cheeks, banked fire glowing in her eyes.

Someone stands, eyes glued to her face. It’s Harwin, her father’s man. “M’lady?”

She blinks and bites her lip. It’s time to take up the mantle again, much as she has run from this very fate since she was small. “Yes. My name is Arya of House Stark, first of my name, a lady of Winterfell." She barely allows time for this to sink in before she continues, "And I would like to see my mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, what a quick turnaround this time! I wouldn't get used to it, but school procrastination does wonders for my writing, so anything is possible. This is also slightly longer than the other chapters, and (arguably) the plot moves forward. All in all, a marked improvement quantitatively. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment or a kudos for the last chapter, you guys are really the best! I look forward to hearing from more of you as the story unfolds.


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